


Naked Glory

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops, First Dates, First dates that go on all day, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Greg POV, Greg gets an eyeful, Instant Connection, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft's a nudist, Old fashion-style cocktails & new music, Pranks, Secret Nudists, Sometimes badly, Sparks, Twitter bot posts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 12:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Greg's Friday night takes a distinctly embarrassing turn when he answers what he believes are a summons from Mycroft, only to arrive and find the man...in deshabille. What could have been (okay, was) an extremely awkward encounter turns into something more. Something...sweeter. Suddenly Greg's weekend is looking a lot brighter.





	Naked Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anglofile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglofile/gifts).



> A birthday fic for @MyAngloFiles, who had mentioned wanting a fic where the first time Greg and Mycroft kiss is when they figure out that they like one another. The secret nudist part is solely to blame on the Twitter bot.

Greg entered in the keycode and watched the light turn from red to green before he opened the front door. Although he had the appropriate codes and passwords, he’d still been half certain he’d never make it into Mycroft’s  _ neighborhood _ , much less his house. The ominous bloke at the entrance to the elegant gated compound in Mayfair had scrutinized his credentials, verified that he was on the list, double checked it in the computer and still made him sign a confidentiality waiver and submit a fingerprint. Then he and his car drove through what he was pretty sure was some sort of giant scanner before the gates slid soundlessly open and he was admitted.

 

“Sheesh,” Greg had muttered, once the window of his aging BMW was rolled up, “Paranoid much?” Still, he knew security measures for the man were tight. They’d never met at his home before. Only ever at his cinematically dramatic bunker, or in the reverent silence of the Diogenes. This was...new. Kinda intimate to be meeting him in his home. 

 

Parking along the kerb, Greg had locked his car before he hurried up the shallow flight of white stone steps. There was a blue Heritage plaque on the wall next to the small portico, but with dusk already settling cosily into place, it was impossible to make out. Greg would have rung the bell, but Mycroft’s text had instructed him to use the keycode and enter without announcing his presence, as he was expected and events were unfolding too fast for him to be greeted. Shrugging, Greg stepped over the sill, and shut the heavy door behind him, hearing it automatically lock. 

 

_ I’ll be in the study on the ground floor, to the right of the front door _ , Mycroft’s text had stated. Feeling a bit uneasy, Greg located the door and started towards it, wondering if he should call out. He wasn’t entirely certain why, but his instincts were tingling, and he began to wonder if there was something going on. Maybe Mycroft was in danger? Why then had he called on Greg instead of the bruiser at the front gate? Didn’t make any sense for him to wait for Greg to show up when he had emergency services to call upon.

 

The muted sound of television dialogue greeted his ears as he eased the door open, mouth open to call out a cautious hello when he was arrested by the sight before him. Mycroft Holmes, stark naked, lounging on a velvet sofa, his long, long legs stretched out and propped on the coffee table. Coherent words strangled on a wave of disbelief and a surge of lust, and Greg emitted a very high-pitched, very embarrassing squawk. Fast as a ninja, Mycroft was on his feet, whirling towards the door, tension in every line of his (very visible) body. Greg shrank back, holding up placating hands, “It’s me!”

 

If anything, the sight of Greg seemed to further alarm Mycroft, who froze for precisely a half second before leaping into action. Snatching up the nearest item, an empty cereal bowl, Mycroft whipped it over his groin (Greg couldn’t help but note it did a barely adequate job of covering him-- _ no, brain! Not the issue here!) _ and they stared at one another, aghast.

 

“What on  _ earth _ \--” Mycroft couldn’t have injected more horror and shock into his voice if he’d suddenly been confronted with a zombie slavering for his brains.

 

“Christ, I am  _ so _ sorry, Mycroft!” Greg’s voice squeaked but he had bigger problems. 

 

A mortified babble of apologies and explanations tumbled out, and it was several minutes before they stumbled to a stop, confused. “I...should like a better explanation, Inspector,” Mycroft finally said, overly formal considering milk was dribbling down his leg from the inverted bowl currently cupping his family jewels. “Could I ask you to step into the kitchen and make us tea whilst I, er, locate my dressing gown?” Despite his softly waving, untamed hair, and so much naked, naked skin, Mycroft was as dignified as a duke at high tea with the Queen.

 

Face hot, mind in a tizzy, Greg simply nodded and fled. It took a few false starts before he located the kitchen. A large, gleaming, professionally appointed space, it looked untouched; Greg gawped at it, unable to imagine Mycroft Holmes actually eating, much less cooking. The kettle was in plain sight, and he filled it before plugging it in and hunting for tea. There was was a cupboard directly above the kettle which held an abundance of bagged and loose-leaf varieties, and he took one of the bagged options, not sure he was up to fiddling with tea strainers with his nerves in a state. Trying to will away the image of Mycroft’s soft red body hair and his elegant legs, Greg located cups and opened the fridge--

 

_ Does he run? I bet he runs. You don’t get legs like that sitting behind a desk all day--stop! _

 

\--he wasn’t sure if Mycroft took milk, but thought he’d have it ready.

 

The state of the spotless stainless steel appliance was near mirror of his own, not in cleanliness, but because it was almost empty. Where he had streaky bacon, Boddington’s and a good half-dozen, half-finished cartons of takeaway, Mycroft had skim milk, three cartons of yoghurt and a piece of cake. It was a very luscious piece of cake, three tiered, chocolate, with creamy filling, abundant icing and curls of dark chocolate, white chocolate and fresh strawberries. Sitting on a plain china plate, the cake sat in state on an otherwise unoccupied shelf. Greg licked his lips, thinking of Mycroft sitting naked on his luxuriously soft sofa, slowly lapping chocolate frosting from his fork. Naked. Naked cake eating sounded a damn sight sexier than anything you’d find  _ him _ doing in his flat.

 

Shifting his hips, Greg whispered to his half-erect cock, “Down boy,” and reached for the milk.

 

“What’s that Inspector?” Mycroft asked from behind him, having apparently arrived soundlessly on bare feet. His lean form was decently clad in a navy silk dressing gown with a paisley collar, which made his eyes look decidedly blue. Greg felt his eyes trying to drop to Mycroft’s groin, wondering if he was pantless under the thin material.  _ Rude! Don’t stare at the man! _

 

Firmly training his rebellious eyes on Mycroft’s arched left eyebrow, he responded hastily and not entirely convincingly, “Er, nothing. Just wondering if you took...milk.” Thinking of the milk that had dribbled down Mycroft’s thigh he cleared his throat and hoped he wasn’t turning the color of a beet. Judging by the answering colour that rose in Mycroft’s face, he probably was. Scratch that-- _ definitely _ was.

 

Glancing at the tea waiting on the counter, Mycroft nodded, “Please.” They avoided one another’s eyes as the tea steeped. When Greg chanced a quick peek towards Mycroft, he found the other man looking surreptitiously at him and they both coloured and turned their faces away. The silence was excruciating, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to break it until the kettle was ready. With relief they doctored their tea and clung to their mugs, trying and failing to make eye contact.

 

“I’m, er, sorry about barging in,” Greg began, feeling an apology and explanation was overdue. “Didn’t think it would be a, a...bad time...since you’d texted me to come right away.”

 

“I? Texted you?” Mycroft’s brow contracted in gentle bewilderment. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “I assure you I have not texted anyone in a non-work capacity this evening, let alone yourself. I certainly would have been...attired...had I planned on summoning you.”

 

Greg rubbed his nose, “Yeah, I mean...it’s right here.” He hauled his mobile out and unlocked the screen with his code, then opened the messaging app. Turning the phone to show Mycroft he finally chanced a sip of his tea, which was too hot and was, well,  _ tea _ . What he really needed was some good, bracing coffee. Better yet, a large ale. His heart pattered foolishly when Mycroft’s fingers brushed his as the other man took the phone from him. Studying the screen, puzzled, Mycroft finally looked up.

 

“This appears to be from my number, but I assure you, Inspector, I was not the author of these texts. A moment,” so saying he disappeared, only to return to the room a minute later, carrying his own mobile. They studied it together, shoulders brushing. There were no outgoing texts from Mycroft’s phone to Greg’s contact. “Inspector,” Mycroft said slowly, “I do believe we’ve been the victims of a ploy--perhaps of malicious intent, perhaps merely meant to embarrass me.”

 

“Think you can call me ‘Greg.’” Greg’s usual sense of humour was thawing now that the initial shock had worn off, and he was beginning to be tickled by just how farcical it all was.  _ And I thought my weekend was going to be dull. _

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Considering I’ve seen you, y’know,” Greg gestured, feeling a smile tug at his mouth, “In the buff.”

 

“This is most distressing,” Mycroft murmured, “I’m a naturally private person and for you to have witnessed  _ that _ \--”

 

“Hey, not saying I wouldn’t feel the same in your shoes,” Greg rushed to assure him, “But it’s your home, you can be naked if you want. God knows I rarely wear pants when I’m at mine.”

 

A quick flare of what might have been interest in any other man flashed in Mycroft’s eyes. Greg told himself not to be fanciful. “I suppose one does tend to unwind when alone in the privacy of one’s home.”

 

“One does,” Greg teased gently, and felt rewarded when Mycroft flashed him a quiet smile. “It’s forgotten,” he lied, knowing he’d have a very hard time not thinking of Mycroft’s nude form later. Hell, he was having a hard time not thinking about it  _ now. _ “Don’t let it bother you.”

 

Mycroft was wry, “I’m rather incapable of ‘letting it go,’ I’m afraid, Ins--Greg.”

 

“If it’d make you feel better, I could take my kit off,” Greg joked.

 

Mycroft’s hand jostled and a bit of tea slopped over his hand and down the front of his dressing gown in a series of drips. 

 

“Christ, sorry,” Greg sighed, recalling that of all the people to get jocular with, Mycroft Holmes was probably not one of them, “Forget I said that--who’d want to see this old carcass anyway?” He was really hoping Mycroft would make some light remark and let it go. Come to it, maybe he should just apologize for this whole thing and slink away before he completely destroyed their civil working relationship.

 

“Well...I would, for one.” Nearly tipping over his tea cup again, Mycroft finally seemed to find it prudent to fumble to place it on the counter. He seemed unable to look away from Greg despite the look of dawning horror at his own words. The comment had dropped into the sudden silence which yawned between them, and aghast, they stared at one another, neither quite believing that it was Mycroft Holmes who had just spoken. “I...I simply mean,” Mycroft fumbled at last, “that I’m, well, I’m a n-nudist, and there’s no shame in the naked form.” His chin jerked up as if to punctuate his own belief in the words, though his eyes were softly vulnerable. Seeing it gave Greg a little pang in the chest; the man was usually so buttoned up and impermeable, he must be reeling right now. “I wouldn’t be shocked or put off by your nudity, I’m sure.” Mycroft finally blinked, swallowed hard, a nervous action further betrayed when he gnawed briefly on his lower lip. “Is all I’m saying. From a...purely hypothetical stand-point.” He put down his tea cup and smoothed both hands over his face. When he spoke his voice was muffled by his palms, “Forgive me, Greg, I appear to be thoroughly discombobulated and I’ve forgotten my words. This has been understandably distressing as no one is aware of my er, inclinations. My inclination toward  _ nudism, _ I mean!”

 

_ Oh? And what other inclinations might you mean? _

Greg stomped firmly on his libido--which had never had much sense anyway-- and pulled at his lips, trying to hide a smile. He couldn’t keep his eyes from dancing however, and when he looked up at Mycroft from under his lashes he surprised the other man into blushing.  _ He’s cute when he does that _ , Greg thought in surprise; he’d always thought of the man as omnipotent, powerful, emotionally reserved and strategically manipulative. That he was attractive in a cold sort of way hadn’t really factored into it. But now that he’d seen the naked truth of the man, so to speak, he found himself looking at him differently. It wasn’t all sexual...there was a thrill of interest. What else about this man would he enjoy finding out?

 

“It is distressing,” he finally said, leaning back against the counter and hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets. “I’d be pretty upset if without warning anyone walked in on me bare arsed,” He paused, “like I usually am when I’m home alone.”

 

Mycroft drew in a shallow breath, “Are you?”

 

“Yup.” Greg was easy, cheerful, “I was raised by nudists, actually. My mum and dad were flower children back in the day, actually met in Morocco back in the sixties, fell in love and next thing you know my mum’s expecting me. They moved back home at the insistence of their families, but never got married. They run a cooperative farm back home in Somerset, chickens and goats and veg, like that. The two of them are usually clothes-free when they’re in the house, it’s just how I grew up.” He shrugged, smiling at Mycroft, who looked both fascinated and marginally more relaxed. “Nothing unusual to me, but I know a lot of people get a little...outraged...when it comes to nudity.”

 

“Your childhood sounds far more permissive than my own,” Mycroft admitted, tracing one hand lightly over the silky tie to his dressing gown. His face was pensive, “My parents were very much traditionalists and the few times I would escape while being bathed and run free through the house were punished. I was given to understand that the body was a private, somewhat shameful thing.”

 

“What’s shameful is that you were given that idea,” Greg commented with quiet sympathy. His eyes encouraged Mycroft to go on. Not wanting to unsettle him, he picked up his tea cup and took a sip, just two blokes having a friendly chat.

 

“I--grew up to be a rather portly child,” Mycroft confessed, shamefaced. “Comfort eating saw me through many lonely years but it left me further isolated and with a terrible lack of confidence.” He looked miserable, embarrassed to be sharing, and Greg wanted to put his hand on his arm and tell him it was fine, but he was wary of scaring him off. Instead he let his eyes radiate encouragement and understanding. “I-I had a therapist some time back who encouraged me to embrace myself, flaws and all, and to learn to be comfortable in my own skin by removing my clothes when I was at home.” He shrugged delicately, toes curling slightly against the tile, “Now I find it incredibly natural and comfortable to shed my daily persona in the form of my clothing.”

 

“Good for them, getting you to accept your body,” Greg said sincerely, “and um, well, for what it’s worth, you have nothing to worry about.” Forcing himself to look steadily into Mycroft’s startled eyes, he went on a bit shyly, but doggedly, “I...think you look great.” He hoped he sounded supportive but not creepy.  _ You terrible old letch, _ his conscious whispered. Greg ignored it.

 

“...oh well...t-thank you, Inspector.”

 

“Greg.”

 

“Greg.”

 

They stood in silence for a moment, until it went from awkward to uncomfortable. Finally Greg let out a tiny, near-soundless laugh, “Heh. I…” Trailing off he rubbed his hand nervously over the back of his neck, “...might be about to make an arse out of myself, but would you consider maybe coming out with me sometime?”

 

“Out?” Mycroft echoed, lost. His look of bewilderment was a crying shame, as far as Greg was concerned. He genuinely didn’t seem to comprehend that Greg could be asking him out for any purpose.

 

“For coffee, or a drink...dinner.” Greg worried his lower lip with his teeth, “Just as friends, if you like...or...more?”  _ Please say more. _

 

Mycroft was breathless, “More?” He didn’t seem horrified or offended, instead he was flabbergasted, but also almost enchanted that Greg was asking him out.

 

“Yeah,” Greg said, gaining confidence, smile spreading, “I’d like to see more of you.” The moment the words left his mouth he stopped, horrified that his stupid reckless brain hadn’t filtered that better. The look on Mycroft’s face was too much and he snorted out a laugh, “Oh God, I didn’t mean like that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d like to  _ see _ you again but, oh Christ, I’m cocking this up--”

 

After a moment of surprise, Mycroft’s face relaxed into a smile, and he chuckled. Greg tried to calm his own laughter, but every time they met eyes it set him off again, until Mycroft joined him, seeming more amused by Greg’s snorting laugh than anything else. They snickered together for a few minutes, until they finally calmed, catching their breath and suppressing stray giggles. “That was the singularly most awkward way anyone has ever asked me for a date,” Mycroft said at last, face still open and smiling, “and all I can say is that I’d love to. I want to see more of you as well...in, er, all ways.” Cheeks tinted pink yet again, Mycroft smiled almost impishly at him.

 

Greg grinned, “Yeah? Great…” struck by a thought, he ventured, “I probably outta go before I make a complete balls of this.”

 

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Mycroft assured him, smiling; he tilted his head a little to one side, “I…find you compelling. You only have quite captivated me in the space of less than a half hour.” His eyes were warm, “Imagine what you can manage during a dinner, say.”

 

Captivated?! “Steady on,” Greg joked, embarrassed. “It’s all downhill from here.”

 

“Hush,” Mycroft reproved gently, touching his lips lightly with one finger. “None of that now.”

 

Greg, unable to help himself, lightly kissed the finger over his lips and they looked at one another, arrested, breathing together for a moment. Mycroft let the pad of his finger trail lightly over Greg’s lips for a moment and then his hand dropped. Eyes luminous, wanting, Mycroft stepped forward, until their chests were nearly touching. “It might be the height of foolishness to do this all out of order, but I simply  _ must _ kiss you now.”

 

“Please do,” Greg encouraged, and kept his eyes on Mycroft’s as he closed the distance between them. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had taken the lead like this and it made his breath come short. The first touch of their lips was soft and gentle, but slowly they warmed, lips clinging, breath coming short, and without quite realizing it, Greg had let his hands drift to Mycroft’s lean waist. Mycroft shivered in response, and drew him closer; his arms fit perfectly, wonderfully, around Greg.

 

For long minutes they embraced in the kitchen, learning the shape and feel and taste of one another’s mouths until they finally parted to breathe. Mycroft, eyes brilliant, stared at him in delight and no small degree of want, “That was…” at a seeming loss for words, he trailed off, still staring, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

 

Greg knew just how he felt. His heart was thudding, his pulse singing in his ears and he felt like the only thing keeping him from floating away were his hands on Mycroft’s hips, and the strong arms around him. Licking his lips, he took a deep breath. “I...gotta tell you, Mycroft, I haven’t felt this kind of connection with anyone in years.” Maybe ever, but no need to scare the man off.

 

“I know just what you mean,” Mycroft assured him, raising one hand to brush it over Greg’s cheek before he let his fingers slide into his hair. He caressed his fingers over Greg’s scalp, drawing tingles down his spine, gooseflesh breaking out all over. Involuntarily Greg’s eyes drifted closed and he just managed not to moan. Ever since he was small he’d been a sucker for having his hair messed with. “You are lovely,” Mycroft all but whispered.

 

“So’re you,” Greg said, blinking heavy lids. He smiled at Mycroft, “‘specially like this.”

 

“I could go on kissing you all night,” Mycroft confessed, “but I’m afraid it would be too much too soon…”

 

“Don’t want to rush this,” Greg agreed fervently. “I want...I want to see you again though, soon. Tomorrow?” His smile was hopeful. 

 

“I find myself blessedly free of obligations.” Mycroft was still petting him lightly, as if loathe to let him go. Greg didn’t mind at all, and in fact was doing the same, one hand on his waist, the other toying with the silky tie of Mycroft’s dressing gown. “You mentioned coffee. There’s a marvelous cafe not terribly far from here, and we could walk through the park opposite if the weather is as fair as promised.”

 

“I’d love that,” Greg cuddled a little closer, “C’n I have another kiss to hold me over until then?” He put on his best puppy dog eyes, and paired with a wicked grin it seemed too much for Mycroft to resist.

 

“Assuredly.” They fell easily into the kiss, more familiar with one another’s bodies now, the rhythms of the kiss coming to them naturally. Greg was that tiny bit shorter and it lined them up perfectly, leaving Greg with both arms looped around Mycroft’s waist, as the taller man cradled him gently. They both sighed, a mingled sound of delight and regret, when they parted. In fact they found it hard to stop kissing, and it was some minutes before they finally made a concerted effort to step away from one another. Greg, with great will power, didn’t adjust himself; Mycroft, he was very glad to see, wasn’t unaffected either, judging by the lack of smooth lines at the front of his dressing gown.

 

Promising to email him the name and address of the cafe, Mycroft walked him to the door. Before he unlocked it, they kissed one last time, starting out slow, but ending with Greg’s back against the door, hands clutching hungrily at Mycroft’s back. “You really are damnably addictive,” Mycroft murmured, grazing his lips over Greg’s jaw.

 

“Good,” Greg said smugly, giving him a sunny smile and a naughty wink, “Means you’ll be just as eager to see me tomorrow as I will be to see you.”

 

“There was never any fear that I lacked eagerness,” Mycroft laughed ruefully, finally letting him move out onto the step. Their eyes met and held for a moment, before Greg smilingly bid him goodnight and jogged down the steps to the pavement. He suddenly felt as if he were walking on air, and he couldn’t  _ wait _ until the next day.

  
  


\-----------------------------------------------

  
  


With a surprising degree of nervous anticipation, Greg had gotten up earlier than needed the next day, and shaved with extra care before showering and running product through his hair. On days off he tended to spike it a bit, more like he’d worn it in his bad old days, and looking into the mirror, he saw not his nearly fifty year old face but the visage of a bright, eager, happy man. “Just need a bit of eyeliner, you old flirt,” he teased his reflection, and splashed on his best cologne with happy abandon. The night before had been the first time in ages that he’d had trouble falling asleep because he was looking forward to something  _ good. _

 

Nearly twenty minutes early--he simply hadn’t been able to wait any longer--wearing a black button down with the top few buttons unfastened, worn in a French tuck with his dark wash jeans, Greg strode in his black moto boots into the cafe. He was a bit afraid he looked like he was too much on the pull, but he also figured Mycroft deserved a bit of effort and was also not unaware of his interest. He’d resisted the eyeliner (just) and instead wore a heavy leather and silver military watch on one wrist, and a necklace his niece Kaylie had made him. It was a thin leather cord, slightly longer than choker length, with a tiny silver medallion stamped with a G dangling from it, with a shell on either side. He didn’t have many occasions to wear it, but he’d felt a bit fancy today and fastened it on at the last minute.

 

_ I’d do me, _ he’d thought, giving himself a last once over in the mirror before he left the flat.

 

The cafe was all mullioned windows and overflowing flower boxes on the outside, and inside the heavenly smell of fresh coffee, buttery pastries and sugar greeted him, along with the sultry sounds of contemporary French jazz. The cafe was fairly busy for a Saturday, but since it was nearly ten, the worst of the crowds appeared to have been and gone, leaving a few die hards, sipping drinks, reading the papers or engrossed with their laptops. Greg looked about for a free table and did a double take when he saw Mycroft wave at him sheepishly. Looked like he wasn’t the only one who’d been eager to arrive. Ebullient, Greg practically sailed across the cafe, grinning ear to ear. 

 

Mycroft was smiling broadly at him, and he stood with alacrity when Greg approached. They hugged lightly, cheeks sliding together, releasing a tiny shiver down Greg’s spine. Greg took a discreet sniff; Mycroft smelled bloody  _ marvelous _ , of citrus, tobacco, leather and other delicious, complex scents. “Glad to see I’m not the only one who got here early,” he muttered, and felt rather than heard, Mycroft laugh. They sat down at the tiny table and beamed a little shyly at one another. “You look great,” Greg said admiringly. Like the night prior, Mycroft had abandoned his normally gelled and combed hairstyle and had allowed it a looser, more ruffled look. He passed a bashful hand over it.

 

“I was afraid I looked too casual.”

 

“Not at all,” Greg told him warmly. He let the admiration and attraction he felt shine from his eyes. Maybe it was foolish, this willingness of his to dive right in, but he hadn’t felt like this in years; just sitting at the same table as the other man was making him smile. He let his eyes drift over Mycroft's open-necked, houndstooth button-down, the crisp trousers which were more dressy than his own jeans but cut in a more slim and modern fit than Mycroft’s usual attire. His cognac leather ankle boots looked like they’d been handmade and Greg found that absurdly arousing. The most surprising and delightful facet of the other man's appearance however, was his waistcoat. It was a thin, supple golden-brown leather, beautifully worn and distressed, worn open. The sight of Mycroft in leather, even something so modest, was amazingly stimulating. Greg took a deep breath. 

 

“I didn’t want to order, as it seemed rude,” Mycroft excused, gesturing towards the empty tea cup at his elbow. “But it seemed far less excusable for me to monopolize a table without purchasing anything. Shall we order?” They stood a socially acceptable distance from one another in line, both absorbed in the chalkboard over the barista station, but the whole while Greg was aware of his body, as if his cells were eager to get closer to Mycroft’s. Distracted, he ordered an espresso, then was flustered when he remembered he hated coffee without milk, and got into a long discussion about coffee with the bored barista, since he suddenly couldn’t remember what his normal drink was called. “I think what you want is a cappuccino,” Mycroft finally said nicely, and his eyes twinkled knowingly when Greg looked at him. 

 

They leaned against the end of the counter, trading smiles and glances. “Feel like a kid on my first date,” Greg finally admitted. “Bit ridiculous at my age.”

 

“If you knew how long it had been since I’ve even  _ been _ on a date then you would feel less ridiculous.” Mycroft offered this comfort up freely, with a sideways, smiling glance that said he was assured Greg wouldn't hold his lack of dating against him. 

 

_ I know what I  _ would  _ like to hold against you. No. No, no. Stop. No naughty thoughts. This is  _ date _ time. We're going to be Date Greg, not Sexy Times Greg.  _

 

_ That's for later.  _

 

All Greg said was a mild, “Guess we should both relax and enjoy ourselves then.”

 

“An excellent idea,” Mycroft agreed, and turned to take their drinks from the barista. He handed Greg his cappuccino and left him to add a bit of sugar and cinnamon while he allowed a few drops of cream to settle into his tea before adding a smidge of sugar. “My diet,” Mycroft excused, seeing Greg glance at him. “I’m always wary of regaining the weight it took me so long to lose.” He smiled rather impishly, “And if I save calories on my tea I can steal bites of your sinfully delicious looking cake without guilt.”

 

“Calories keep you up at night, not theft?” Greg laughed. 

 

“I prioritize my ethics,” Mycroft smirked. 

 

“I'll remember that,” Greg said, accepting the plate of cake from the barista with thanks. Waving the plate under Mycroft's magnificent nose, he teased, “‘sides, calories don't count when they're not on your plate.”

 

“Alas!” Mycroft mourned, helpfully snagging cutlery and paper napkins, “Had I but known that in my youth I could have avoided dieting altogether.”

 

“Stick with me,” Greg offered, “I'll steer you right,” and sat, casting a smile up at his companion. 

 

The table was so small that their knees jostled in a friendly fashion not that either of them minded in the least. Greg like the friendly warmth of Mycroft's leg against his own, the way the younger man leaned his elbow on the table, chin cupped in his hand, smiling at him as if he couldn't stop. 

 

Mycroft must have been feeling as happy and optimistic as himself, because it was the most relaxed Greg had ever seen him, and damned if it wasn’t a really, really good look.  _ I want to make him this happy all the time, _ Greg thought, and was slightly shocked at the direction of his thoughts. They’d exchanged a few (admittedly hot) kisses, and were having coffee on what was pretty much, essentially--it certainly hadn’t been  _ denied-- _ a date. Granted, they had known each other for years at this point, but apparently his foolish heart was looking for permanency. Or maybe it had just been looking for Mycroft.

 

_ You're just overdue for a shag, _ Greg tried to warn himself off. 

 

_ Idiot,  _ an inner voice whispered. Shaking off his internal squabbling, Greg picked up one of the forks and gestured to Mycroft to help himself to cake. Cake, he discovered upon the first bite, which was sinfully good and definitely too rich to keep to himself. 

 

Mycroft savored a bite of flourless cake, eyes closing slowly, “Oh, that  _ is _ good,” he sighed, pressing his lips together to swipe them delicately with his tongue, looking for stray crumbs.

 

“Yeah,” Greg said hoarsely, stricken with fresh longing, “it’s great.” He cleared his throat, seeking equilibrium, and looked around, “Seems a bit hipster for you, this place.”

 

“Perhaps it  _ is _ geared toward a somewhat different demographic than myself,” Mycroft admitted, nodding at the crumbling brick walls painted white, the bare cement floor, the exposed industrial pipes, vents and caged lighting. “But their dedication to properly brewed tea and truly excellent single origin coffees cannot be denied. Their fresh pastries are produced by a local artisanal bakery, and on Sundays they offer a very tasty brunch.” He scraped a bit of ganache up with the side of his fork, thoughtful, “It’s an escape from the usual places I associate with in my work life. This is...for me.”

 

“And you’ve brought me here,” Greg replied softly, feeling that swelling in his heart again. Unable to stop himself, he reached his free hand across the small table and touched the back of Mycroft’s hand lightly with his fingertips. “Means a lot, that you brought me to your place.”

 

A moment’s hesitation, and then Mycroft turned his hand palm up and they slid their fingers together. Holding hands, they smiled across the table at one another.  _ He feels it too _ , Greg reflected, awed and touched,  _ I’m glad it’s not just me _ .

 

“I’m not used to sharing anything,” Mycroft confessed softly, “Places, feelings...but I want you to know how very much it means to me Greg. This chance to get to know you better.” After a hesitation, he went on, “I haven’t felt this way in a very long time, perhaps ever.” He bit softly into his lip, eyes slightly widened, frank, “It’s faintly terrifying, feeling this much.”

 

“Me as well.” Greg squeezed his hand softly, “I’ll admit I’m as much to blame as my ex-wife for our marriage ending. She may have cheated but I was pretty unavailable-- not just emotionally, but losing myself in my job all the time. I like you, Mycroft, a lot, and I want to do better,  _ be _ better.” He drew in a deep breath, letting go of the apprehension and embracing the wild optimism which been welling in him all day. “Can I tell you something? Something I really hope won’t run you off?”

 

Looking only slightly apprehensive, Mycroft nodded for him to go on. His face was open, respectful, but his eyes displayed his emotional vulnerability. The Ice Man, Greg had heard he was called by some, but he couldn’t see it now. Just a man unused to trusting, to opening himself up.  _ Well that makes two of us, gorgeous _ , he thought, and took courage. 

 

“I’ve been a bit awed by you in the past. Annoyed, sometimes, when you were high-handed.” Both their lips quirked at old memories, “Impressed and frustrated and mostly thought of you as an ally in corralling Sherlock.” Greg drew deep on his courage, feeling awkward as hell. “I didn’t realize I  _ liked _ you until we kissed last night. I mean, obviously I felt attraction, that’s why I wanted it to happen, but--kissing you, it was like it opened up this door into a world I didn’t know existed. And in that world I saw how much I could like you, if I let myself.” He stumbled to a stop, worried he’d said too much, said the wrong thing, or just said it so badly Mycroft would be confused.

 

For a long few minutes the only sound was the background murmur of voices, underlaid by some sort of instrumental “chill” music endemic to coffee houses, and punctuated by the shrill blast of the steamer frothing milk. Greg waited, heart beating unevenly, and watched Mycroft regard the table top thoughtfully. A nervous part of him wanted to rush to fill the silence, ask for forgiveness, fumble into further inevitable awkwardness and then flee. Or else make a joke, try and steer the conversation back into safer, conventional waters. 

 

If he did that he knew the date would be over. All their possibilities, whatever they might have between them would be gone then. And that scared him worse than staying and working through a bit of awkwardness. A deeper, heretofore unknown part of him counseled patience, and he leaned on his arms and waited, hopeful.

 

Finally Greg was rewarded by Mycroft, who raised his head and regarded him with tender eyes. “Rarely do I feel the sort of sympathetic pang of  _ knowing _ that I experienced when you were talking. It’s rare for me to connect with others, as I’m sure you are aware. I too, have regarded you as an ally, a man to admire, but not someone with whom I shared any deeper connection. Last night changed all that however. Perhaps it was the lack of clothing on my part and the attendant embarrassment and unease which allowed us to strip away the superfluous and see to the heart of the matter. There is something between us, and it heartens me mightily to know that you feel it as well, and that we both wish to pursue it.”

 

There was the most delicate of questions hinted at in his final statement, and Greg squeezed his hand firmly, heart rising upward, buoyant as a helium filled balloon. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want it, Mycroft. Never felt this way, to be honest. Keep getting these rushes of emotion, make me feel as giddy as a teenager.”

 

“So do I,” Mycroft admitted, biting his lip devastatingly, while glancing up through his lashes at Greg. Happiness had turned his normally stormy-steel grey eyes sky blue, and Greg felt himself soaring delightedly into infatuation. 

 

The rest of the morning passed in a pleasant rush, time expanding and contracting. They finished the cake, drained their cups, fetched refills and when those were long gone decided to stretch their legs. The park, as Mycroft had promised, was small, charming and secluded. Their hands brushed as they walked, and they kept catching one another’s eyes, smiling each time. Conversation flowed easily between them, so much so that they didn’t realize it was well after noon until Greg’s stomach grumbled. They’d been sitting on a shaded bench, talking about summer plans and how hard it was to get away for a holiday which had led to their favourite destinations and then onto travel disasters.

 

“God,” Greg said, pressing a hand to his middle, “how can I be hungry after cake and all that coffee?” He glanced at his watch, “Oh, wow...it’s nearly two.”

 

“The morning rather flew by, didn’t it?” Mycroft said, sounding equally startled. His smile was warm, “I find spending time with you remarkably easy and natural. But I didn’t mean to monopolize your day off.”

 

“No worries,” Greg said easily. “Favourite part of my weekends is not having any plans. I can always squeeze in a visit to Waitrose tomorrow. This was a  _ lot _ more fun than laundry. I’m sure you have things to do though, sorry to have kept you.”

 

“I'm honored to come out ahead of laundry in your rankings,” Mycroft said tartly, and Greg laughed.” Actually…” Mycroft raised a brow, “unless you have any objections to spending more time together...how about lunch?”

 

“That’d be great!” Greg enthused, too eager, too comfortable, to play games. He stood, stretching, “How do you feel about pho?”

 

“It sounds suitably light for such a late lunch,” Mycroft responded, rising as well and arching his back with a soft series of pops. They shared a rueful grimace. “Had you some place in mind?”

 

“It’s a bit of a walk, but not too bad,” Greg said, “if you don’t mind waiting just a bit to eat?”

 

“Not at all, it’ll be good to move again.” Mycroft fell into step with him, smiling down at his boots, “Amazing how time ceased to have significant meaning for the last several hours.”

 

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, touching his elbow lightly to guide him to the right, “Can’t remember the last time I had such a good talk on a date.” His step faltered slightly as he registered what he’d said. For some reason the word  _ date _ rang boldly between them.

 

“I do believe,” Mycroft said easily, giving his hand a quick squeeze, “that we have entered a realm in which neither of us has previously experienced anything like this.”

 

“Yeah,” Greg said again, softly, and bumped Mycroft’s shoulder lightly with his. They shared a smile and he walked on with a light heart.

 

Mycroft was delighted with the restaurant to which Greg led him, although he had looked askance at the alley entrance and the very unprepossessing interior. The smells were incredible, however, and when he took his first sip of the broth his eyes slid closed as he moaned softly. “Incredible.”

 

“Yeah.”   _ Christ the man's sexy as hell when he eats. Bet he's voracious in bed. Wait, I told you to go away, Horny Greg. _ “Thought you’d like it.” He used his spoon and chopsticks to get some of the slippery noodles to his mouth, “I’ve probably eaten at every place not listed on Google, over the years. Hazard of being a cop--you stumble upon places when you’re ravenous at five in the morning and the closest place is some dive you’d need a hazmat suit and a gun to enter and feel safe. Found some gems though. If you ever want to know the location of a great hole-in-the-wall eatery anywhere in the greater London area, I’m your man.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mycroft murmured, tone laden with meaning, and gave Greg a positively puckish smile. Greg winked at him, pleased, and Mycroft coloured slightly, smiling down into his steaming bowl of pho. Twirling noodles deftly with his chopsticks, he inquired if Greg had ever traveled to Southeast Asia.

 

“Nah,” Greg said regretfully, “I’d love it, ‘specially Thailand. There was never any money when I was young and footloose. Then before I knew it, I was knee-deep in responsibility and climbing the promotions ladder, and married...never the time.” He shook off the melancholy which threatened when he reflected on missed chances and regrets. None of that today, today was for here, now; and for the future, which suddenly loomed bright with promise and anticipation. “What about you? I imagine you travel a lot for work...but do you ever get away just for you?”

 

“Not as much in the last ten years or so,” Mycroft admitted, sipping at his bubble tea, “But that can be attributed as much to me as it can be laid at work’s door. I find it hard to block out work--and my responsibilities to Sherlock--and indulge in time to myself. Most of my holidays have been spent closer to home, although in my youth I did go abroad quite a bit in the summers.” He smiled nostalgically, “I spent a few weeks in Thailand when I was in my twenties and it was so rich with culture, abundant with history, food, amazing people. I’d dearly love to return, though I am far different from that young man I once was.”

 

_ Maybe we can go together, someday _ , Greg thought. For whatever reason, it didn’t seem a far-fetched notion, though this was only their first date. Though maybe, if one counted just right, it was really their third date, just taking place all on one day. Despite having known Mycroft for years, today had opened his eyes in so many ways. Something to think about, he decided, and put it out of his mind for the moment. For now, he wanted to listen to Mycroft talk, using his hands expressively, his face animated in a way it seldom was, and fall a little bit in love.

 

Rain was falling by the time they exited the restaurant, so they ducked into the nearest recessed doorway and hashed out ideas. Neither was quite willing to part ways just yet, so Mycroft suggested they go to see a film. Tired of being jostled by patrons, and glowered at by the staff, they finally entered the establishment sheepishly, shaking off rain drops. It proved to be a pub, dimly lit, a bit crowded despite the early hour, and they managed to find seats at one end of the bar. “Drink?” Greg asked, waving the bartender over.

 

“Do you know how to make a Sidecar?” Mycroft asked politely and seemed surprised when the bartender assured him he did. Greg ordered a craft beer he’d never tried and grinned at Mycroft. 

 

“Oooh, a Sidecar, is it? Swanky drink for a swanky gent,” he teased gently. Mycroft rolled his eyes with a tiny huff, clearly amused.

 

“It seems they specialise in old fashioned mixology,” Mycroft noted, studying the drinks menu which they’d barely glanced at before. He hummed, “I must remember this place. It seems charming.” Giving Greg another of those upward looks through his lashes, he amended, “although that may be due solely to the company.”

 

Greg wondered if he’d ever in his life blushed as much as he’d done in the last twenty-four hours. Honestly, before Mycroft he wasn't sure he'd known he was  _ capable _ of blushing. He struggled for a moment to order his thoughts, and finally asked roughly, “How do you feel about PDA?”

 

Mycroft was bewildered, “I have no idea what that is.”

 

Greg grinned, trailed a finger lightly down the outside of Mycroft’s arm and hooked his fingers lightly through Mycroft’s. Swinging their loosely linked hands between them, he lowered his voice, leaning in. “Public displays of affection, Mycroft. Means I want to kiss you.”

 

“I...have never before so wanted to be kissed in front of strangers,” Mycroft managed, pupils swelling. He licked his lips, “This corner seems fairly private.”

 

It really wasn’t. 

 

Greg was hardly going to argue; taking his time, he leaned in, smiling as Mycroft eased closer. Hands still linked, they smiled at one another, background noise fading into an anonymous mutter. Bringing his free hand up, Greg cupped Mycroft’s smooth-shaven jaw in his fingers, brushed a thumb over his lower lip. When Mycroft’s mouth opened willingly, Greg’s breath caught in his throat. Finally, slowly, not needing to rush, Greg let their lips touch, soft and gentle and almost chaste. Mycroft’s mouth curved into a smile, and Greg echoed it, pulling back and letting his hand drop, though he kept their fingers entwined.

 

Their drinks arrived, rather interrupting their own private bubble, and they swiveled on their stools, picking up their drinks to taste. “Excellent,” Mycroft pronounced his, and Greg was pleased enough with his beer. Using Greg’s mobile, they scrolled through the films on offer, debating the merits of each cheerfully. “What was that French one you said you wanted to see at the little independent film house?” Greg asked, flicking back up the results. “Oh. Hell, we took too long, the only showing for tonight starts in ten, we’d never make it.”

 

“Another time, perhaps,” Mycroft said easily. He propped his chin on Greg’s shoulder and looked at the screen with him, “You seemed interested in that American film...”

 

“It’s part of a trilogy,” Greg explained, “I’ll see that some other time. You’d be lost.”

 

By the time they’d finished their drinks, the two of them had determined that there wasn’t anything they had a burning desire to see, and the one film they were half interested in had already started. “Fancy another?” Greg asked, waggling his glass at Mycroft. “Or...am I keeping you?”

 

“Not at all,” Mycroft protested, “I’d love another.” His face was open, relaxed, “I’m having a frankly lovely time and can’t think of any way I’d rather spend my evening than with you, here.”

 

“Same,” Greg glowed, and flagged the bartender down. Another Sidecar for Mycroft, and for himself he switched to a different craft beer following a discussion with the knowledgeable bartender. “Friendly,” Greg commented, used to the rather surly fellow that waited bar at his local.

 

“He thinks you’re attractive,” Mycroft commented sotto voce once the young man had moved away to serve another patron.

 

“What? Who, him?” Greg asked, startled, looking over at the definitely young man with sleek good looks. “Nah. He’s young enough to be my son, almost.”

 

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft said dryly. He licked his lips following a sip of his drink, “I assure you he’s not the only one in here with their eyes on you.”

 

“Well you’re the only one I have eyes for,” Greg said simply, and felt his heart expand at the pleasure which bloomed on Mycroft’s face. They lingered over their second round, caught up in a discussion of music--the atmosphere in the pub wasn’t too noisy, and the music piped in was rather eclectic. “I played guitar when I was a young troublemaker,” Greg confessed, shaking his head at himself, “though I wasn’t very good, truth be told. Got laid a lot, though.”

 

“I can imagine,” Mycroft smirked, eyes drifting over Greg as if he were picturing him as a lithe young thing. Greg squashed a feeling of inadequacy, knowing that some thirty years later he wasn’t nearly so irresistible. “Though I do believe, Greg, that you’re like an exquisite wine...you only grow more toothsome as you age.”

 

“Christ,” Greg blurted out, covering his hot face with one hand, embarrassed. “I’m--really not.”

 

“Allow, if you will, that of the two of us, I’m more likely to be a greater judge of wines  _ and _ your appeal.” Mycroft softened, dropping the teasing, hand sliding warmly over Greg’s, pulling it away from Greg's face. He met his eyes frankly, “You have no idea of how truly lovely you are, Greg, and that’s part of what makes you such a stunning man.”

 

“Oh...bollocks,” Greg denied weakly, face still stinging with heat. He admitted he did okay when he actually had time to date, but Christ, he wasn’t  _ stunning _ .

 

Diplomatically, Mycroft changed the subject back to music. Like Sherlock, he had learned an instrument from a young age. The cello, he confessed, and he found escape in playing, though he was nowhere near as dedicated as he should be. “My parents insisted we both learn,” he mused, “though God knows why they wanted us to pursue classical music. They’re both,” his voice dropped to a whisper, as if about to divulge a state secret, “country music fans.”

 

Greg barked with laughter, and a few heads turned. He grinned at Mycroft, “Oh say it ain’t so,” he teased. Tipping his head on one side, he ventured, “No chaps and ten gallon hats for you?”

 

“No chaps on _ me _ , anyway,” Mycroft said rather roguishly, and they giggled. 

 

It was Mycroft who suggested a third round, and Greg happily agreed. Pointing out to Mycroft the cider he wanted to try next, Greg excused himself to the Gents. When he came back Greg heard the bartender, who was sitting down their beverages, tell Mycroft, “Sure, there’s lots of great places to eat around here, depends on what you’re looking for. But if you want, we’re setting up for live music--Saturday nights only--and we serve tapas. We’ve got some really scrummy options.” His look was knowing, “You both look so cozy, and it’d be a shame to break the spell.”

 

“Ah--”

 

Greg slid up behind Mycroft, putting an arm lightly around his shoulders, “Sounds great, thanks for letting us know,” he said in a firm, friendly tone, nodding at the bartender, who took the hint and left after putting hand-written menus down. “What do you think?” Greg asked, wanting to dispel the uncomfortable look on Mycroft’s face. He suspected the other man was worried that Greg was growing tired of him, or maybe he didn’t want to appear too eager. “I could do with some nibbles, if you like, and sounds like we’re both in need of exposure to music that was produced in this century.”

 

Mycroft laughed, relaxing, and turned a little toward him. Greg wanted to brush an errant curl behind his ear, so he did, fingertips lingering on the warm skin. His heart beat a little faster, and he curled his arm around Mycroft, relishing the heat of his body, the alluring smell of his aftershave. “Sounds lovely,” the younger man admitted, and put an arm tentatively around Greg’s waist, as if he half-expected to be barked at. When Greg relaxed into him, Mycroft smiled more broadly, and hooked his fingers lightly through Greg’s belt-loop. “I’m perfectly happy.”

 

“S’m I,” Greg whispered, and pressed a tender kiss to Mycroft’s temple. 

 

Hours later, ears still ringing pleasantly from the live music which had woven a throbbing spell through the pub, bellies full of tasting plates and excellent booze, they made their way out onto the pavement. “Goodness,” Mycroft said, catching sight of the time on his wristwatch, “It’s after midnight, I had no idea!”

 

“Having too much fun?”

 

“Definitely too much fun to pay attention to something as petty as time,” Mycroft smiled. He paused, “Shall I call a driver? They can drop you home after going by my place.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Greg waved away the offer, “I can walk to the nearest Tube station.”

 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said sternly, “It would hardly be chivalrous of me to let my date walk to the Underground alone.”

 

Greg’s lips twitched, “Unchivalrous, eh? Can’t have that. Alright then, I’d love a ride.”

 

Mycroft texted for a few minutes then put his phone away, “The car will be here in twenty minutes, barring traffic,” he said, and leaned against the half-wall Greg had eased himself up onto. “I’ve had a simply wonderful, time, Gregory,” he said after a moment of companionable silence. Looking up into Greg’s eyes, he leaned a bit of his weight into his thigh, confident Greg wouldn’t mind, certain he would hold him. “Tonight was...perfect.”

 

“Yeah it was,” Greg said, easing an arm around Mycroft and giving him a bit of a cuddle. Though he was far too middle-aged to ever pass for a teenager, his heart felt that same sense of hope and possibility he’d known as a young man. Waiting here outside a pub where they’d spent hours offering their lives up to one another freely, talking about everything and nothing, exploring new music and new food...it had left him feeling invigorated, optimistic. “Wish it didn’t have to end.”

 

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed, putting his hand over the one Greg had looped around him and tangling their fingers together. “Much as I’d love to walk and talk all night, I can’t imagine either of us would particularly benefit from no sleep.”

 

“I’d look like an old boot left out in the rain,” Greg agreed cheerfully, smiling when Mycroft huffed with laughter. “But...how about we consider tonight a chance to rest and reflect? Then tomorrow...you could come to mine? I’m not much of a cook, but I do a few things well. How does lemon-rosemary chicken and a big salad sound to you?”

 

“Like perfection,” Mycroft sighed happily, “May I bring something?”

 

“White wine?” Greg suggested, “I’ll have fruit for afters--whatever looks best at the market.”

 

“I look forward to it mightily,” Mycroft assured him with a broad smile.

 

“Fantastic.” Greg made a thoughtful noise, “Much as I want to focus on learning more about you, we  _ should _ set aside five minutes to discuss how it was your meddlesome brother who set us both up for embarrassment last night.” Grinning evilly, Greg added, “and figure out how we’re going to get him  _ back _ .”

 

“Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft said slowly, pulling back and giving him a delighted look, “you grow ever more perfect every time you open your mouth…”

  
  


\--------------------------------------

  
  


_ Two days later _

 

Even from the bottom of the seventeen steps leading up to 221B, John’s tone of outrage carried clearly. He was evidently unloading his annoyance on Sherlock, although Sherlock seemed to be giving as good as he got. They both practically fizzed with annoyance bordering on unspoken frustrated sexual desire--their usual status. A fact, which, perhaps, accounted for Sherlock’s distraction and prevented him from noticing that the flat was not unoccupied. That fact was brought screamingly to his attention when he shoved open the door and stalked into the lounge, only to stop short, causing John to blunder into him.

 

John, objection hot on his lips, fell equally as silent as his stricken flat mate when he stepped around Sherlock’s taller figure and caught sight of what had arrested Sherlock. “Bloody hell!” John blurted, startled into a disbelieving laugh. He automatically glanced at Sherlock, who appeared to be frozen--much like a computer which had received a virus--but his fascinated, horrified gaze was inevitably dragged back to the tableau greeting them.

 

“John, how’r’ya mate?” Greg asked cheerfully from where he was stretched out on the sofa, leaning against a pile of cushions, Sherlock’s laptop on his lap. “Hope you fellas don’t mind, it’s been a bugger of a day and I thought I’d put my feet up,” he yawned, stretched, gave a little wiggle of his bum into the sofa cushions, “relax.”

 

“Er....” said John.

 

“I, seeking my brother, arrived to find the good Inspector looking so serene that I too decided to indulge in a rare moment of ease,” Mycroft spoke up; he was lounging in Sherlock’s chair, long legs crossed, looking cool and lethal as ever. Rattling his broadsheet, he turned a page, “It is, I admit, a bit of a hot day to seat oneself upon leather, but the perspiration should easily wipe away.”

 

Sherlock’s right eyelid twitched, and his mouth sort of  _ flopped _ , leaving him looking like a neurotic fish.

 

“Oh!” Greg said, making as if to move, “sorry, I should get up, let you two sit down.” Raising Sherlock’s laptop, he revealed himself in all his naked glory. “Glad to move, gotta say, that laptop was getting my tackle kinda sweaty.”

 

John rubbed a hand hard over his mouth, fighting a disbelieving grin, “Uh, Greg?” His eyes were politely averted from Greg’s naked stretch, but when they inadvertently landed on Mycroft’s bare toes curling happily on the rug, they skittered away again. Fixing his eyes safely on the toes of his trainers, he cleared his throat, “Someone want to tell me what’s going on here?”

 

“Just two blokes who ran into one another and decided to escape the heat of the day,” Greg said casually, trying to hand Sherlock his laptop. Sherlock recoiled, making a strangled noise. “No?” Greg asked cheerfully, and set it down on the sofa. Nonchalantly, he strolled across the lounge, bare buttocks flexing, ease in every line of his body. Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned into Mycroft’s space, crumpling the paper with his chest. “Hiya gorgeous,” he greeted Mycroft.

 

Mycroft tossed the paper aside and Sherlock whimpered. John--evidently having chanced a glance to see what had so upset Sherlock, muttered a disbelieving curse and then snorted.

 

“Hello,” Mycroft smiled, eyes fond. “I’m quite refreshed, shall we retire to my house for our dinner date?”

 

“Fine by me,” Greg growled, leaning in to kiss Mycroft softly, an action which put more of his arse on display. Sherlock’s strangled sound of outrage was nearly masked by John’s shocked, gasping denial of what he was seeing. “We’ll just dress and be out of your hair, lads,” he called over his shoulder, smiling at Mycroft. “It’s a bit stuffy and Myc’s got the most glorious air con at his.”

 

It didn’t take Greg long to step into his pants and trousers and don his button down. He sat on the sofa to pull on his socks and shoes, admiring eyes on Mycroft, who was dressing in a  _ very _ leisurely fashion. John had escaped to the kitchen, pulling the frosted glass sliding doors closed, which did nothing to mask his hysterical, snorting laughter. Sherlock still stood where he’d come to a halt earlier, although now his eyes were firmly shut, and he appeared to be be speaking soundlessly at a furious rate. Greg lingered in front of him, hands in his pockets, posture easy. Mycroft appeared at his elbow, crooked an arm, “Shall we, Gregory?”

 

“Love to,” Greg said, taking his arm. He raised his voice, “See ya round, John!”

 

“Uh...bye,” John stopped giggling long enough to call. 

 

Mycroft paused by Sherlock’s side, eyes like lasers on his younger brother’s face; Sherlock refused to look at him. “Next time you have a quibble with me, Sherlock, do try not to involve innocent bystanders in your pranks.” He gave Greg a tender, triumphant look, “although I must say, this shenanigan of yours had a most pleasant outcome.” Patting Sherlock on the arm, he spoke heartily, “ _ Thank _ you, Sherlock.”

 

Almost out the door, Greg turned, stepped back to Sherlock and murmured, “I put my bollocks all over something you own--and you’ll never guess what it is, not in a million years.”

 

There was an outraged silence, and then a panicked, “Mrs Hudson! I need you to clean!”

 

Smirking, Greg held the door open for Mycroft, and gestured to him to proceed him down the stairs, “After you, sunshine.”

 

“Didn’t you get enough of ogling my posterior earlier?” Mycroft asked coyly, sashaying down the stairs with a definite swagger.

 

“Nope,” Greg said brightly, “Never get tired of that sight!”

  
  
  



End file.
